Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

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the enchanters that persecute me. But tell me now, didst thou ask thisTosilos, as thou callest him, what has become of Altisidora, did she weepover my absence, or has she already consigned to oblivion the lovethoughts that used to afflict her when I was present?"

"The thoughts that I had," said Sancho, "were not such as to leave timefor asking fool's questions. Body o' me, senor! is your worship in acondition now to inquire into other people's thoughts, above all lovethoughts?"

"Look ye, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "there is a great difference betweenwhat is done out of love and what is done out of gratitude. A knight mayvery possibly be proof against love; but it is impossible, strictlyspeaking, for him to be ungrateful. Altisidora, to all appearance, lovedme truly; she gave me the three kerchiefs thou knowest of; she wept at mydeparture, she cursed me, she abused me, casting shame to the winds shebewailed herself in public; all signs that she adored me; for the wrathof lovers always ends in curses. I had no hopes to give her, nortreasures to offer her, for mine are given to Dulcinea, and the treasuresof knights-errant are like those of the fairies,' illusory and deceptive;all I can give her is the place in my memory I keep for her, withoutprejudice, however, to that which I hold devoted to Dulcinea, whom thouart wronging by thy remissness in whipping thyself and scourging thatflesh--would that I saw it eaten by wolves--which would rather keepitself for the worms than for the relief of that poor lady."

"Senor," replied Sancho, "if the truth is to be told, I cannot persuademyself that the whipping of my backside has anything to do with thedisenchantment of the enchanted; it is like saying, 'If your head achesrub ointment on your knees;' at any rate I'll make bold to swear that inall the histories dealing with knight-errantry that your worship has readyou have never come across anybody disenchanted by whipping; but whetheror no I'll whip myself when I have a fancy for it, and the opportunityserves for scourging myself comfortably."

"God grant it," said Don Quixote; "and heaven give thee grace to take itto heart and own the obligation thou art under to help my lady, who isthine also, inasmuch as thou art mine."

As they pursued their journey talking in this way they came to the verysame spot where they had been trampled on by the bulls. Don Quixoterecognised it, and said he to Sancho, "This is the meadow where we cameupon those gay shepherdesses and gallant shepherds who were trying torevive and imitate the pastoral Arcadia there, an idea as novel as it washappy, in emulation whereof, if so be thou dost approve of it, Sancho, Iwould have ourselves turn shepherds, at any rate for the time I have tolive in retirement. I will buy some ewes and everything else requisitefor the pastoral calling; and, I under the name of the shepherd Quixotizeand thou as the shepherd Panzino, we will roam the woods and groves andmeadows singing songs here, lamenting in elegies there, drinking of thecrystal waters of the springs or limpid brooks or flowing rivers. Theoaks will yield us their sweet fruit with bountiful hand, the trunks ofthe hard cork trees a seat, the willows shade, the roses perfume, thewidespread meadows carpets tinted with a thousand dyes; the clear pureair will give us breath, the moon and stars lighten the darkness of thenight for us, song shall be our delight, lamenting our joy, Apollo willsupply us with verses, and love with conceits whereby we shall makeourselves famed for ever, not only in this but in ages to come."

"Egad," said Sancho, "but that sort of life squares, nay corners, with mynotions; and what is more the bachelor Samson Carrasco and MasterNicholas the barber won't have well seen it before they'll want to followit and turn shepherds along with us; and God grant it may not come intothe curate's head to join the sheepfold too, he's so jovial and fond ofenjoying himself."

"Thou art in the right of it, Sancho," said Don Quixote; "and thebachelor Samson Carrasco, if he enters the pastoral fraternity, as nodoubt he will, may call himself the shepherd Samsonino, or perhaps theshepherd Carrascon; Nicholas the barber may call himself Niculoso, as oldBoscan formerly was called Nemoroso; as for the curate I don't know whatname we can fit to him unless it be something derived from his title, andwe call him the shepherd Curiambro. For the shepherdesses whose lovers weshall be, we can pick names as we would pears; and as my lady's name doesjust as well for a shepherdess's as for a princess's, I need not troublemyself to look for one that will suit her better; to thine, Sancho, thoucanst give what name thou wilt."

"I don't mean to give her any but Teresona," said Sancho, "which will gowell with her stoutness and with her own right name, as she is calledTeresa; and then when I sing her praises in my verses I'll show howchaste my passion is, for I'm not going to look 'for better bread thanever came from wheat' in other men's houses. It won't do for the curateto have a shepherdess, for the sake of good example; and if the bachelorchooses to have one, that is his look-out."

"God bless me, Sancho my friend!" said Don Quixote, "what a life we shalllead! What hautboys and Zamora bagpipes we shall hear, what tabors,timbrels, and rebecks! And then if among all these different sorts ofmusic that of the albogues is heard, almost all the pastoral instrumentswill be there."

"What are albogues?" asked Sancho, "for I never in my life heard tell ofthem or saw them."

"Albogues," said Don Quixote, "are brass plates like candlesticks thatstruck against one another on the hollow side make a noise which, if notvery pleasing or harmonious, is not disagreeable and accords very wellwith the rude notes of the bagpipe and tabor. The word albogue isMorisco, as are all those in our Spanish tongue that begin with al; forexample, almohaza, almorzar, alhombra, alguacil, alhucema, almacen,alcancia, and others of the same sort, of which there are not many more;our language has only three that are Morisco and end in i, which areborcegui, zaquizami, and maravedi. Alheli and alfaqui are seen to beArabic, as well by the al at the beginning as by the they end with. Imention this incidentally, the chance allusion to albogues havingreminded me of it; and it will be of great assistance to us in theperfect practice of this calling that I am something of a poet, as thouknowest, and that besides the bachelor Samson Carrasco is an accomplishedone. Of the curate I say nothing; but I will wager he has some spice ofthe poet in him, and no doubt Master Nicholas too, for all barbers, ormost of them, are guitar players and stringers of verses. I will bewailmy separation; thou shalt glorify thyself as a constant lover; theshepherd Carrascon will figure as a rejected one, and the curateCuriambro as whatever may please him best; and so all will go as gaily asheart could wish."

To this Sancho made answer, "I am so unlucky, senor, that I'm afraid theday will never come when I'll see myself at such a calling. O what neatspoons I'll make when I'm a shepherd! What messes, creams, garlands,pastoral odds and ends! And if they don't get me a name for wisdom,they'll not fail to get me one for ingenuity. My daughter Sanchica willbring us our dinner to the pasture. But stay-she's good-looking, andshepherds there are with more mischief than simplicity in them; I wouldnot have her 'come for wool and go back shorn;' love-making and lawlessdesires are just as common in the fields as in the cities, and inshepherds' shanties as in royal palaces; 'do away with the cause, you doaway with the sin;' 'if eyes don't see hearts don't break' and 'better aclear escape than good men's prayers.'"

"A truce to thy proverbs, Sancho," exclaimed Don Quixote; "any one ofthose thou hast uttered would suffice to explain thy meaning; many a timehave I recommended thee not to be so lavish with proverbs and to exercisesome moderation in delivering them; but it seems to me it is only'preaching in the desert;' 'my mother beats me and I go on with mytricks."

"It seems to me," said Sancho, "that your worship is like the commonsaying, 'Said the frying-pan to the kettle, Get away, blackbreech.' Youchide me for uttering proverbs, and you string them in couples yourself."

"Observe, Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "I bring in proverbs to thepurpose, and when I quote them they fit like a ring to the finger; thoubringest them in by the head and shoulders, in such a way that thou dostdrag them in, rather than introduce them; if I am not mistaken, I havetold thee already that proverbs are short maxims drawn from theexperience and observation of our wise men of old; but the proverb thatis not to the purpose is a piece of nonsense and not a maxim. But enoughof this; as nightfall is drawing on let us retire some little distancefrom the high road to pass the night; what is in store for us to-morrowGod knoweth."

They turned aside, and supped late and poorly, very much against Sancho'swill, who turned over in his mind the hardships attendant uponknight-errantry in woods and forests, even though at times plentypresented itself in castles and houses, as at Don Diego de Miranda's, atthe wedding of Camacho the Rich, and at Don Antonio Moreno's; hereflected, however, that it could not be always day, nor always night;and so that night he passed in sleeping, and his master in waking.

CHAPTER LXVIII.

OF THE BRISTLY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTE

The night was somewhat dark, for though there was a moon in the sky itwas not in a quarter where she could be seen; for sometimes the ladyDiana goes on a stroll to the antipodes, and leaves the mountains allblack and the valleys in darkness. Don Quixote obeyed nature so far as tosleep his first sleep, but did not give way to the second, very differentfrom Sancho, who never had any second, because with him sleep lasted fromnight till morning, wherein he showed what a sound constitution and fewcares he had. Don Quixote's cares kept him restless, so much so that heawoke Sancho and said to him, "I am amazed, Sancho, at the unconcern ofthy temperament. I believe thou art made of marble or hard brass,incapable of any emotion or feeling whatever. I lie awake while thousleepest, I weep while thou singest, I am faint with fasting while thouart sluggish and torpid from pure repletion. It is the duty of goodservants to share the sufferings and feel the sorrows of their masters,if it be only for the sake of appearances. See the calmness of the night,the solitude of the spot, inviting us to break our slumbers by a vigil ofsome sort. Rise as thou livest, and retire a little distance, and with agood heart and cheerful courage give thyself three or four hundred lasheson account of Dulcinea's disenchantment score; and this I entreat ofthee, making it a request, for I have no desire to come to grips withthee a second time, as I know thou hast a heavy hand. As soon as thouhast laid them on we will pass the rest of the night, I singing myseparation, thou thy constancy, making a beginning at once with thepastoral life we are to follow at our village."

"Senor," replied Sancho, "I'm no monk to get up out of the middle of mysleep and scourge myself, nor does it seem to me that one can pass fromone extreme of the pain of whipping to the other of music. Will yourworship let me sleep, and not worry me about whipping myself? or you'llmake me swear never to touch a hair of my doublet, not to say my flesh."

"O hard heart!" said Don Quixote, "O pitiless squire! O breadill-bestowed and favours ill-acknowledged, both those I have done theeand those I mean to do thee! Through me hast thou seen thyself agovernor, and through me thou seest thyself in immediate expectation ofbeing a count, or obtaining some other equivalent title, for I-posttenebras spero lucem."

"I don't know what that is," said Sancho; "all I know is that so long asI am asleep I have neither fear nor hope, trouble nor glory; and goodluck betide him that invented sleep, the cloak that covers over all aman's thoughts, the food that removes hunger, the drink that drives awaythirst, the fire that warms the cold, the cold that tempers the heat,and, to wind up with, the universal coin wherewith everything is bought,the weight and balance that makes the shepherd equal with the king andthe fool with the wise man. Sleep, I have heard say, has only one fault,that it is like death; for between a sleeping man and a dead man there isvery little difference."

"Never have I heard thee speak so elegantly as now, Sancho," said DonQuixote; "and here I begin to see the truth of the proverb thou dostsometimes quote, 'Not with whom thou art bred, but with whom thou artfed.'"

"Ha, by my life, master mine," said Sancho, "it's not I that am stringingproverbs now, for they drop in pairs from your worship's mouth fasterthan from mine; only there is this difference between mine and yours,that yours are well-timed and mine are untimely; but anyhow, they are allproverbs."

At this point they became aware of a harsh indistinct noise that seemedto spread through all the valleys around. Don Quixote stood up and laidhis hand upon his sword, and Sancho ensconced himself under Dapple andput the bundle of armour on one side of him and the ass's pack-saddle onthe other, in fear and trembling as great as Don Quixote's perturbation.Each instant the noise increased and came nearer to the two terrifiedmen, or at least to one, for as to the other, his courage is known toall. The fact of the matter was that some men were taking above sixhundred pigs to sell at a fair, and were on their way with them at thathour, and so great was the noise they made and their grunting andblowing, that they deafened the ears of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, andthey could not make out what it was. The wide-spread grunting drove cameon in a surging mass, and without showing any respect for Don Quixote'sdignity or Sancho's, passed right over the pair of them, demolishingSancho's entrenchments, and not only upsetting Don Quixote but sweepingRocinante off his feet into the bargain; and what with the trampling andthe grunting, and the pace at which the unclean beasts went, pack-saddle,armour, Dapple and Rocinante were left scattered on the ground and Sanchoand Don Quixote at their wits' end.

Sancho got up as well as he could and begged his master to give him hissword, saying he wanted to kill half a dozen of those dirty unmannerlypigs, for he had by this time found out that that was what they were.

"Let them be, my friend," said Don Quixote; "this insult is the penaltyof my sin; and it is the righteous chastisement of heaven that jackalsshould devour a vanquished knight, and wasps sting him and pigs tramplehim under foot."

"I suppose it is the chastisement of heaven, too," said Sancho, "thatflies should prick the squires of vanquished knights, and lice eat them,and hunger assail them. If we squires were the sons of the knights weserve, or their very near relations, it would be no wonder if the penaltyof their misdeeds overtook us, even to the fourth generation. But whathave the Panzas to do with the Quixotes? Well, well, let's lie down againand sleep out what little of the night there's left, and God will send usdawn and we shall be all right."

"Sleep thou, Sancho," returned Don Quixote, "for thou wast born to sleepas I was born to watch; and during the time it now wants of dawn I willgive a loose rein to my thoughts, and seek a vent for them in a littlemadrigal which, unknown to thee, I composed in my head last night."

"I should think," said Sancho, "that the thoughts that allow one to makeverses cannot be of great consequence; let your worship string verses asmuch as you like and I'll sleep as much as I can;" and forthwith, takingthe space of ground he required, he muffled himself up and fell into asound sleep, undisturbed by bond, debt, or trouble of any sort. DonQuixote, propped up against the trunk of a beech or a cork tree--for CideHamete does not specify what kind of tree it was--sang in this strain tothe accompaniment of his own sighs:

When in my mindI muse, O Love, upon thy cruelty, To death I flee,In hope therein the end of all to find.

But drawing nearThat welcome haven in my sea of woe, Such joy I know,That life revives, and still I linger here.

Thus life doth slay,And death again to life restoreth me; Strange destiny,That deals with life and death as with a play!

He accompanied each verse with many sighs and not a few tears, just likeone whose heart was pierced with grief at his defeat and his separationfrom Dulcinea.

And now daylight came, and the sun smote Sancho on the eyes with hisbeams. He awoke, roused himself up, shook himself and stretched his lazylimbs, and seeing the havoc the pigs had made with his stores he cursedthe drove, and more besides. Then the pair resumed their journey, and asevening closed in they saw coming towards them some ten men on horsebackand four or five on foot. Don Quixote's heart beat quick and Sancho'squailed with fear, for the persons approaching them carried lances andbucklers, and were in very warlike guise. Don Quixote turned to Sanchoand said, "If I could make use of my weapons, and my promise had not tiedmy hands, I would count this host that comes against us but cakes andfancy bread; but perhaps it may prove something different from what weapprehend." The men on horseback now came up, and raising their lancessurrounded Don Quixote in silence, and pointed them at his back andbreast, menacing him with death. One of those on foot, putting his fingerto his lips as a sign to him to be silent, seized Rocinante's bridle anddrew him out of the road, and the others driving Sancho and Dapple beforethem, and all maintaining a strange silence, followed in the steps of theone who led Don Quixote. The latter two or three times attempted to askwhere they were taking him to and what they wanted, but the instant hebegan to open his lips they threatened to close them with the points oftheir lances; and Sancho fared the same way, for the moment he seemedabout to speak one of those on foot punched him with a goad, and Dapplelikewise, as if he too wanted to talk. Night set in, they quickened theirpace, and the fears of the two prisoners grew greater, especially as theyheard themselves assailed with--"Get on, ye Troglodytes;" "Silence, yebarbarians;" "March, ye cannibals;" "No murmuring, ye Scythians;" "Don'topen your eyes, ye murderous Polyphemes, ye blood-thirsty lions," andsuchlike names with which their captors harassed the ears of the wretchedmaster and man. Sancho went along saying to himself, "We, tortolites,barbers, animals! I don't like those names at all; 'it's in a bad windour corn is being winnowed;' 'misfortune comes upon us all at once likesticks on a dog,' and God grant it may be no worse than them that thisunlucky adventure has in store for us."

Don Quixote rode completely dazed, unable with the aid of all his wits tomake out what could be the meaning of these abusive names they calledthem, and the only conclusion he could arrive at was that there was nogood to be hoped for and much evil to be feared. And now, about an hourafter midnight, they reached a castle which Don Quixote saw at once wasthe duke's, where they had been but a short time before. "God bless me!"said he, as he recognised the mansion, "what does this mean? It is allcourtesy and politeness in this house; but with the vanquished good turnsinto evil, and evil into worse."

They entered the chief court of the castle and found it prepared andfitted up in a style that added to their amazement and doubled theirfears, as will be seen in the following chapter.

CHAPTER LXIX.

OF THE STRANGEST AND MOST EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE THAT BEFELL DON QUIXOTEIN THE WHOLE COURSE OF THIS GREAT HISTORY

The horsemen dismounted, and, together with the men on foot, without amoment's delay taking up Sancho and Don Quixote bodily, they carried theminto the court, all round which near a hundred torches fixed in socketswere burning, besides above five hundred lamps in the corridors, so thatin spite of the night, which was somewhat dark, the want of daylightcould not be perceived. In the middle of the court was a catafalque,raised about two yards above the ground and covered completely by animmense canopy of black velvet, and on the steps all round it white waxtapers burned in more than a hundred silver candlesticks. Upon thecatafalque was seen the dead body of a damsel so lovely that by herbeauty she made death itself look beautiful. She lay with her headresting upon a cushion of brocade and crowned with a garland ofsweet-smelling flowers of divers sorts, her hands crossed upon her bosom,and between them a branch of yellow palm of victory. On one side of thecourt was erected a stage, where upon two chairs were seated two personswho from having crowns on their heads and sceptres in their handsappeared to be kings of some sort, whether real or mock ones. By the sideof this stage, which was reached by steps, were two other chairs on whichthe men carrying the prisoners seated Don Quixote and Sancho, all insilence, and by signs giving them to understand that they too were to besilent; which, however, they would have been without any signs, for theiramazement at all they saw held them tongue-tied. And now two persons ofdistinction, who were at once recognised by Don Quixote as his hosts theduke and duchess, ascended the stage attended by a numerous suite, andseated themselves on two gorgeous chairs close to the two kings, as theyseemed to be. Who would not have been amazed at this? Nor was this all,for Don Quixote had perceived that the dead body on the catafalque wasthat of the fair Altisidora. As the duke and duchess mounted the stageDon Quixote and Sancho rose and made them a profound obeisance, whichthey returned by bowing their heads slightly. At this moment an officialcrossed over, and approaching Sancho threw over him a robe of blackbuckram painted all over with flames of fire, and taking off his cap putupon his head a mitre such as those undergoing the sentence of the HolyOffice wear; and whispered in his ear that he must not open his lips, orthey would put a gag upon him, or take his life. Sancho surveyed himselffrom head to foot and saw himself all ablaze with flames; but as they didnot burn him, he did not care two farthings for them. He took off themitre and seeing painted with devils he put it on again, saying tohimself, "Well, so far those don't burn me nor do these carry me off."Don Quixote surveyed him too, and though fear had got the better of hisfaculties, he could not help smiling to see the figure Sancho presented.And now from underneath the catafalque, so it seemed, there rose a lowsweet sound of flutes, which, coming unbroken by human voice (for theresilence itself kept silence), had a soft and languishing effect. Then,beside the pillow of what seemed to be the dead body, suddenly appeared afair youth in a Roman habit, who, to the accompaniment of a harp which hehimself played, sang in a sweet and clear voice these two stanzas:

While fair Altisidora, who the sport Of cold Don Quixote's cruelty hath been,Returns to life, and in this magic court The dames in sables come to grace the scene,And while her matrons all in seemly sort My lady robes in baize and bombazine,Her beauty and her sorrows will I singWith defter quill than touched the Thracian string.

But not in life alone, methinks, to me Belongs the office; Lady, when my tongueIs cold in death, believe me, unto thee My voice shall raise its tributary song.My soul, from this strait prison-house set free, As o'er the Stygian lake it floats along,Thy praises singing still shall hold its way,And make the waters of oblivion stay.

At this point one of the two that looked like kings exclaimed, "Enough,enough, divine singer! It would be an endless task to put before us nowthe death and the charms of the peerless Altisidora, not dead as theignorant world imagines, but living in the voice of fame and in thepenance which Sancho Panza, here present, has to undergo to restore herto the long-lost light. Do thou, therefore, O Rhadamanthus, who sittestin judgment with me in the murky caverns of Dis, as thou knowest all thatthe inscrutable fates have decreed touching the resuscitation of thisdamsel, announce and declare it at once, that the happiness we lookforward to from her restoration be no longer deferred."

No sooner had Minos the fellow judge of Rhadamanthus said this, thanRhadamanthus rising up said:

"Ho, officials of this house, high and low, great and small, make hastehither one and all, and print on Sancho's face four-and-twenty smacks,and give him twelve pinches and six pin thrusts in the back and arms; forupon this ceremony depends the restoration of Altisidora."

On hearing this Sancho broke silence and cried out, "By all that's good,I'll as soon let my face be smacked or handled as turn Moor. Body o' me!What has handling my face got to do with the resurrection of this damsel?'The old woman took kindly to the blits; they enchant Dulcinea, and whipme in order to disenchant her; Altisidora dies of ailments God waspleased to send her, and to bring her to life again they must give mefour-and-twenty smacks, and prick holes in my body with pins, and raiseweals on my arms with pinches! Try those jokes on a brother-in-law; 'I'man old dog, and "tus, tus" is no use with me.'"

"Thou shalt die," said Rhadamanthus in a loud voice; "relent, thou tiger;humble thyself, proud Nimrod; suffer and be silent, for noimpossibilities are asked of thee; it is not for thee to inquire into thedifficulties in this matter; smacked thou must be, pricked thou shalt seethyself, and with pinches thou must be made to howl. Ho, I say,officials, obey my orders; or by the word of an honest man, ye shall seewhat ye were born for."

At this some six duennas, advancing across the court, made theirappearance in procession, one after the other, four of them withspectacles, and all with their right hands uplifted, showing four fingersof wrist to make their hands look longer, as is the fashion now-a-days.No sooner had Sancho caught sight of them than, bellowing like a bull, heexclaimed, "I might let myself be handled by all the world; but allowduennas to touch me--not a bit of it! Scratch my face, as my master wasserved in this very castle; run me through the body with burnisheddaggers; pinch my arms with red-hot pincers; I'll bear all in patience toserve these gentlefolk; but I won't let duennas touch me, though thedevil should carry me off!"

Here Don Quixote, too, broke silence, saying to Sancho, "Have patience,my son, and gratify these noble persons, and give all thanks to heaventhat it has infused such virtue into thy person, that by its sufferingsthou canst disenchant the enchanted and restore to life the dead."

The duennas were now close to Sancho, and he, having become moretractable and reasonable, settling himself well in his chair presentedhis face and beard to the first, who delivered him a smack very stoutlylaid on, and then made him a low curtsey.

In fine, all the duennas smacked him and several others of the householdpinched him; but what he could not stand was being pricked by the pins;and so, apparently out of patience, he started up out of his chair, andseizing a lighted torch that stood near him fell upon the duennas and thewhole set of his tormentors, exclaiming, "Begone, ye ministers of hell;I'm not made of brass not to feel such out-of-the-way tortures."

At this instant Altisidora, who probably was tired of having been so longlying on her back, turned on her side; seeing which the bystanders criedout almost with one voice, "Altisidora is alive! Altisidora lives!"

Rhadamanthus bade Sancho put away his wrath, as the object they had inview was now attained. When Don Quixote saw Altisidora move, he went onhis knees to Sancho saying to him, "Now is the time, son of my bowels,not to call thee my squire, for thee to give thyself some of those lashesthou art bound to lay on for the disenchantment of Dulcinea. Now, I say,is the time when the virtue that is in thee is ripe, and endowed withefficacy to work the good that is looked for from thee."

To which Sancho made answer, "That's trick upon trick, I think, and nothoney upon pancakes; a nice thing it would be for a whipping to come now,on the top of pinches, smacks, and pin-proddings! You had better take abig stone and tie it round my neck, and pitch me into a well; I shouldnot mind it much, if I'm to be always made the cow of the wedding for thecure of other people's ailments. Leave me alone; or else by God I'llfling the whole thing to the dogs, let come what may."

Altisidora had by this time sat up on the catafalque, and as she did sothe clarions sounded, accompanied by the flutes, and the voices of allpresent exclaiming, "Long life to Altisidora! long life to Altisidora!"The duke and duchess and the kings Minos and Rhadamanthus stood up, andall, together with Don Quixote and Sancho, advanced to receive her andtake her down from the catafalque; and she, making as though she wererecovering from a swoon, bowed her head to the duke and duchess and tothe kings, and looking sideways at Don Quixote, said to him, "God forgivethee, insensible knight, for through thy cruelty I have been, to me itseems, more than a thousand years in the other world; and to thee, themost compassionate upon earth, I render thanks for the life I am now inpossession of. From this day forth, friend Sancho, count as thine sixsmocks of mine which I bestow upon thee, to make as many shirts forthyself, and if they are not all quite whole, at any rate they are allclean."

Sancho kissed her hands in gratitude, kneeling, and with the mitre in hishand. The duke bade them take it from him, and give him back his cap anddoublet and remove the flaming robe. Sancho begged the duke to let themleave him the robe and mitre; as he wanted to take them home for a tokenand memento of that unexampled adventure. The duchess said they mustleave them with him; for he knew already what a great friend of his shewas. The duke then gave orders that the court should be cleared, and thatall should retire to their chambers, and that Don Quixote and Sanchoshould be conducted to their old quarters.

CHAPTER LXX.

WHICH FOLLOWS SIXTY-NINE AND DEALS WITH MATTERS INDISPENSABLE FOR THECLEAR COMPREHENSION OF THIS HISTORY

Sancho slept that night in a cot in the same chamber with Don Quixote, athing he would have gladly excused if he could for he knew very well thatwith questions and answers his master would not let him sleep, and he wasin no humour for talking much, as he still felt the pain of his latemartyrdom, which interfered with his freedom of speech; and it would havebeen more to his taste to sleep in a hovel alone, than in that luxuriouschamber in company. And so well founded did his apprehension prove, andso correct was his anticipation, that scarcely had his master got intobed when he said, "What dost thou think of tonight's adventure, Sancho?Great and mighty is the power of cold-hearted scorn, for thou with thineown eyes hast seen Altisidora slain, not by arrows, nor by the sword, norby any warlike weapon, nor by deadly poisons, but by the thought of thesternness and scorn with which I have always treated her."

"She might have died and welcome," said Sancho, "when she pleased and howshe pleased; and she might have left me alone, for I never made her fallin love or scorned her. I don't know nor can I imagine how the recoveryof Altisidora, a damsel more fanciful than wise, can have, as I have saidbefore, anything to do with the sufferings of Sancho Panza. Now I beginto see plainly and clearly that there are enchanters and enchanted peoplein the world; and may God deliver me from them, since I can't delivermyself; and so I beg of your worship to let me sleep and not ask me anymore questions, unless you want me to throw myself out of the window."

"Sleep, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote, "if the pinprodding andpinches thou hast received and the smacks administered to thee will letthee."

"No pain came up to the insult of the smacks," said Sancho, "for thesimple reason that it was duennas, confound them, that gave them to me;but once more I entreat your worship to let me sleep, for sleep is relieffrom misery to those who are miserable when awake."

"Be it so, and God be with thee," said Don Quixote.

They fell asleep, both of them, and Cide Hamete, the author of this greathistory, took this opportunity to record and relate what it was thatinduced the duke and duchess to get up the elaborate plot that has beendescribed. The bachelor Samson Carrasco, he says, not forgetting how heas the Knight of the Mirrors had been vanquished and overthrown by DonQuixote, which defeat and overthrow upset all his plans, resolved to tryhis hand again, hoping for better luck than he had before; and so, havinglearned where Don Quixote was from the page who brought the letter andpresent to Sancho's wife, Teresa Panza, he got himself new armour andanother horse, and put a white moon upon his shield, and to carry hisarms he had a mule led by a peasant, not by Tom Cecial his former squirefor fear he should be recognised by Sancho or Don Quixote. He came to theduke's castle, and the duke informed him of the road and route DonQuixote had taken with the intention of being present at the jousts atSaragossa. He told him, too, of the jokes he had practised upon him, andof the device for the disenchantment of Dulcinea at the expense ofSancho's backside; and finally he gave him an account of the trick Sanchohad played upon his master, making him believe that Dulcinea wasenchanted and turned into a country wench; and of how the duchess, hiswife, had persuaded Sancho that it was he himself who was deceived,inasmuch as Dulcinea was really enchanted; at which the bachelor laughednot a little, and marvelled as well at the sharpness and simplicity ofSancho as at the length to which Don Quixote's madness went. The dukebegged of him if he found him (whether he overcame him or not) to returnthat way and let him know the result. This the bachelor did; he set outin quest of Don Quixote, and not finding him at Saragossa, he went on,and how he fared has been already told. He returned to the duke's castleand told him all, what the conditions of the combat were, and how DonQuixote was now, like a loyal knight-errant, returning to keep hispromise of retiring to his village for a year, by which time, said thebachelor, he might perhaps be cured of his madness; for that was theobject that had led him to adopt these disguises, as it was a sad thingfor a gentleman of such good parts as Don Quixote to be a madman. And sohe took his leave of the duke, and went home to his village to wait therefor Don Quixote, who was coming after him. Thereupon the duke seized theopportunity of practising this mystification upon him; so much did heenjoy everything connected with Sancho and Don Quixote. He had the roadsabout the castle far and near, everywhere he thought Don Quixote waslikely to pass on his return, occupied by large numbers of his servantson foot and on horseback, who were to bring him to the castle, by fairmeans or foul, if they met him. They did meet him, and sent word to theduke, who, having already settled what was to be done, as soon as heheard of his arrival, ordered the torches and lamps in the court to belit and Altisidora to be placed on the catafalque with all the pomp andceremony that has been described, the whole affair being so well arrangedand acted that it differed but little from reality. And Cide Hamete says,moreover, that for his part he considers the concocters of the joke ascrazy as the victims of it, and that the duke and duchess were not twofingers' breadth removed from being something like fools themselves whenthey took such pains to make game of a pair of fools.

As for the latter, one was sleeping soundly and the other lying awakeoccupied with his desultory thoughts, when daylight came to them bringingwith it the desire to rise; for the lazy down was never a delight to DonQuixote, victor or vanquished. Altisidora, come back from death to lifeas Don Quixote fancied, following up the freak of her lord and lady,entered the chamber, crowned with the garland she had worn on thecatafalque and in a robe of white taffeta embroidered with gold flowers,her hair flowing loose over her shoulders, and leaning upon a staff offine black ebony. Don Quixote, disconcerted and in confusion at herappearance, huddled himself up and well-nigh covered himself altogetherwith the sheets and counterpane of the bed, tongue-tied, and unable tooffer her any civility. Altisidora seated herself on a chair at the headof the bed, and, after a deep sigh, said to him in a feeble, soft voice,"When women of rank and modest maidens trample honour under foot, andgive a loose to the tongue that breaks through every impediment,publishing abroad the inmost secrets of their hearts, they are reduced tosore extremities. Such a one am I, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha,crushed, conquered, love-smitten, but yet patient under suffering andvirtuous, and so much so that my heart broke with grief and I lost mylife. For the last two days I have been dead, slain by the thought of thecruelty with which thou hast treated me, obdurate knight,

O harder thou than marble to my plaint;

or at least believed to be dead by all who saw me; and had it not beenthat Love, taking pity on me, let my recovery rest upon the sufferings ofthis good squire, there I should have remained in the other world."

"Love might very well have let it rest upon the sufferings of my ass, andI should have been obliged to him," said Sancho. "But tell me,senora--and may heaven send you a tenderer lover than my master-what didyou see in the other world? What goes on in hell? For of course that'swhere one who dies in despair is bound for."

"To tell you the truth," said Altisidora, "I cannot have died outright,for I did not go into hell; had I gone in, it is very certain I shouldnever have come out again, do what I might. The truth is, I came to thegate, where some dozen or so of devils were playing tennis, all inbreeches and doublets, with falling collars trimmed with Flemishbonelace, and ruffles of the same that served them for wristbands, withfour fingers' breadth of the arms exposed to make their hands looklonger; in their hands they held rackets of fire; but what amazed mestill more was that books, apparently full of wind and rubbish, servedthem for tennis balls, a strange and marvellous thing; this, however, didnot astonish me so much as to observe that, although with players it isusual for the winners to be glad and the losers sorry, there in that gameall were growling, all were snarling, and all were cursing one another.""That's no wonder," said Sancho; "for devils, whether playing or not, cannever be content, win or lose."

"Very likely," said Altisidora; "but there is another thing thatsurprises me too, I mean surprised me then, and that was that no balloutlasted the first throw or was of any use a second time; and it waswonderful the constant succession there was of books, new and old. To oneof them, a brand-new, well-bound one, they gave such a stroke that theyknocked the guts out of it and scattered the leaves about. 'Look whatbook that is,' said one devil to another, and the other replied, 'It isthe "Second Part of the History of Don Quixote of La Mancha," not by CideHamete, the original author, but by an Aragonese who by his own accountis of Tordesillas.' 'Out of this with it,' said the first, 'and into thedepths of hell with it out of my sight.' 'Is it so bad?' said the other.'So bad is it,' said the first, 'that if I had set myself deliberately tomake a worse, I could not have done it.' They then went on with theirgame, knocking other books about; and I, having heard them mention thename of Don Quixote whom I love and adore so, took care to retain thisvision in my memory."

"A vision it must have been, no doubt," said Don Quixote, "for there isno other I in the world; this history has been going about here for sometime from hand to hand, but it does not stay long in any, for everybodygives it a taste of his foot. I am not disturbed by hearing that I amwandering in a fantastic shape in the darkness of the pit or in thedaylight above, for I am not the one that history treats of. If it shouldbe good, faithful, and true, it will have ages of life; but if it shouldbe bad, from its birth to its burial will not be a very long journey."

Altisidora was about to proceed with her complaint against Don Quixote,when he said to her, "I have several times told you, senora that itgrieves me you should have set your affections upon me, as from mine theycan only receive gratitude, but no return. I was born to belong toDulcinea del Toboso, and the fates, if there are any, dedicated me toher; and to suppose that any other beauty can take the place she occupiesin my heart is to suppose an impossibility. This frank declaration shouldsuffice to make you retire within the bounds of your modesty, for no onecan bind himself to do impossibilities."

Hearing this, Altisidora, with a show of anger and agitation, exclaimed,"God's life! Don Stockfish, soul of a mortar, stone of a date, moreobstinate and obdurate than a clown asked a favour when he has his mindmade up, if I fall upon you I'll tear your eyes out! Do you fancy, DonVanquished, Don Cudgelled, that I died for your sake? All that you haveseen to-night has been make-believe; I'm not the woman to let the blackof my nail suffer for such a camel, much less die!"

"That I can well believe," said Sancho; "for all that about lovers piningto death is absurd; they may talk of it, but as for doing it-Judas maybelieve that!"

While they were talking, the musician, singer, and poet, who had sung thetwo stanzas given above came in, and making a profound obeisance to DonQuixote said, "Will your worship, sir knight, reckon and retain me in thenumber of your most faithful servants, for I have long been a greatadmirer of yours, as well because of your fame as because of yourachievements?" "Will your worship tell me who you are," replied DonQuixote, "so that my courtesy may be answerable to your deserts?" Theyoung man replied that he was the musician and songster of the nightbefore. "Of a truth," said Don Quixote, "your worship has a mostexcellent voice; but what you sang did not seem to me very much to thepurpose; for what have Garcilasso's stanzas to do with the death of thislady?"

"Don't be surprised at that," returned the musician; "for with the callowpoets of our day the way is for every one to write as he pleases andpilfer where he chooses, whether it be germane to the matter or not, andnow-a-days there is no piece of silliness they can sing or write that isnot set down to poetic licence."

Don Quixote was about to reply, but was prevented by the duke andduchess, who came in to see him, and with them there followed a long anddelightful conversation, in the course of which Sancho said so many drolland saucy things that he left the duke and duchess wondering not only athis simplicity but at his sharpness. Don Quixote begged their permissionto take his departure that same day, inasmuch as for a vanquished knightlike himself it was fitter he should live in a pig-sty than in a royalpalace. They gave it very readily, and the duchess asked him ifAltisidora was in his good graces.

He replied, "Senora, let me tell your ladyship that this damsel's ailmentcomes entirely of idleness, and the cure for it is honest and constantemployment. She herself has told me that lace is worn in hell; and as shemust know how to make it, let it never be out of her hands; for when sheis occupied in shifting the bobbins to and fro, the image or images ofwhat she loves will not shift to and fro in her thoughts; this is thetruth, this is my opinion, and this is my advice."

"And mine," added Sancho; "for I never in all my life saw a lace-makerthat died for love; when damsels are at work their minds are more set onfinishing their tasks than on thinking of their loves. I speak from myown experience; for when I'm digging I never think of my old woman; Imean my Teresa Panza, whom I love better than my own eyelids." "You saywell, Sancho," said the duchess, "and I will take care that my Altisidoraemploys herself henceforward in needlework of some sort; for she isextremely expert at it." "There is no occasion to have recourse to thatremedy, senora," said Altisidora; "for the mere thought of the crueltywith which this vagabond villain has treated me will suffice to blot himout of my memory without any other device; with your highness's leave Iwill retire, not to have before my eyes, I won't say his ruefulcountenance, but his abominable, ugly looks." "That reminds me of thecommon saying, that 'he that rails is ready to forgive,'" said the duke.

Altisidora then, pretending to wipe away her tears with a handkerchief,made an obeisance to her master and mistress and quitted the room.

"Ill luck betide thee, poor damsel," said Sancho, "ill luck betide thee!Thou hast fallen in with a soul as dry as a rush and a heart as hard asoak; had it been me, i'faith 'another cock would have crowed to thee.'"

So the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote dressed himself anddined with the duke and duchess, and set out the same evening.

CHAPTER LXXI.

OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN DON QUIXOTE AND HIS SQUIRE SANCHO ON THE WAY TOTHEIR VILLAGE

The vanquished and afflicted Don Quixote went along very downcast in onerespect and very happy in another. His sadness arose from his defeat, andhis satisfaction from the thought of the virtue that lay in Sancho, ashad been proved by the resurrection of Altisidora; though it was withdifficulty he could persuade himself that the love-smitten damsel hadbeen really dead. Sancho went along anything but cheerful, for it grievedhim that Altisidora had not kept her promise of giving him the smocks;and turning this over in his mind he said to his master, "Surely, senor,I'm the most unlucky doctor in the world; there's many a physician that,after killing the sick man he had to cure, requires to be paid for hiswork, though it is only signing a bit of a list of medicines, that theapothecary and not he makes up, and, there, his labour is over; but withme though to cure somebody else costs me drops of blood, smacks, pinches,pinproddings, and whippings, nobody gives me a farthing. Well, I swear byall that's good if they put another patient into my hands, they'll haveto grease them for me before I cure him; for, as they say, 'it's by hissinging the abbot gets his dinner,' and I'm not going to believe thatheaven has bestowed upon me the virtue I have, that I should be dealingit out to others all for nothing."

"Thou art right, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote, "and Altisidora hasbehaved very badly in not giving thee the smocks she promised; andalthough that virtue of thine is gratis data--as it has cost thee nostudy whatever, any more than such study as thy personal sufferings maybe--I can say for myself that if thou wouldst have payment for the lasheson account of the disenchant of Dulcinea, I would have given it to theefreely ere this. I am not sure, however, whether payment will comportwith the cure, and I would not have the reward interfere with themedicine. I think there will be nothing lost by trying it; consider howmuch thou wouldst have, Sancho, and whip thyself at once, and pay thyselfdown with thine own hand, as thou hast money of mine."

At this proposal Sancho opened his eyes and his ears a palm's breadthwide, and in his heart very readily acquiesced in whipping himself, andsaid he to his master, "Very well then, senor, I'll hold myself inreadiness to gratify your worship's wishes if I'm to profit by it; forthe love of my wife and children forces me to seem grasping. Let yourworship say how much you will pay me for each lash I give myself."

"If Sancho," replied Don Quixote, "I were to requite thee as theimportance and nature of the cure deserves, the treasures of Venice, themines of Potosi, would be insufficient to pay thee. See what thou hast ofmine, and put a price on each lash."

"Of them," said Sancho, "there are three thousand three hundred and odd;of these I have given myself five, the rest remain; let the five go forthe odd ones, and let us take the three thousand three hundred, which ata quarter real apiece (for I will not take less though the whole worldshould bid me) make three thousand three hundred quarter reals; the threethousand are one thousand five hundred half reals, which make sevenhundred and fifty reals; and the three hundred make a hundred and fiftyhalf reals, which come to seventy-five reals, which added to the sevenhundred and fifty make eight hundred and twenty-five reals in all. TheseI will stop out of what I have belonging to your worship, and I'll returnhome rich and content, though well whipped, for 'there's no takingtrout'--but I say no more."

"O blessed Sancho! O dear Sancho!" said Don Quixote; "how we shall bebound to serve thee, Dulcinea and I, all the days of our lives thatheaven may grant us! If she returns to her lost shape (and it cannot bebut that she will) her misfortune will have been good fortune, and mydefeat a most happy triumph. But look here, Sancho; when wilt thou beginthe scourging? For if thou wilt make short work of it, I will give thee ahundred reals over and above."

"When?" said Sancho; "this night without fail. Let your worship order itso that we pass it out of doors and in the open air, and I'll scarifymyself."

Night, longed for by Don Quixote with the greatest anxiety in the world,came at last, though it seemed to him that the wheels of Apollo's car hadbroken down, and that the day was drawing itself out longer than usual,just as is the case with lovers, who never make the reckoning of theirdesires agree with time. They made their way at length in among somepleasant trees that stood a little distance from the road, and therevacating Rocinante's saddle and Dapple's pack-saddle, they stretchedthemselves on the green grass and made their supper off Sancho's stores,and he making a powerful and flexible whip out of Dapple's halter andheadstall retreated about twenty paces from his master among some beechtrees. Don Quixote seeing him march off with such resolution and spirit,said to him, "Take care, my friend, not to cut thyself to pieces; allowthe lashes to wait for one another, and do not be in so great a hurry asto run thyself out of breath midway; I mean, do not lay on so strenuouslyas to make thy life fail thee before thou hast reached the desirednumber; and that thou mayest not lose by a card too much or too little, Iwill station myself apart and count on my rosary here the lashes thougivest thyself. May heaven help thee as thy good intention deserves."

"'Pledges don't distress a good payer,'" said Sancho; "I mean to lay onin such a way as without killing myself to hurt myself, for in that, nodoubt, lies the essence of this miracle."

He then stripped himself from the waist upwards, and snatching up therope he began to lay on and Don Quixote to count the lashes. He mighthave given himself six or eight when he began to think the joke notrifle, and its price very low; and holding his hand for a moment, hetold his master that he cried off on the score of a blind bargain, foreach of those lashes ought to be paid for at the rate of half a realinstead of a quarter.

"Go on, Sancho my friend, and be not disheartened," said Don Quixote;"for I double the stakes as to price."

"In that case," said Sancho, "in God's hand be it, and let it rainlashes." But the rogue no longer laid them on his shoulders, but laid onto the trees, with such groans every now and then, that one would havethought at each of them his soul was being plucked up by the roots. DonQuixote, touched to the heart, and fearing he might make an end ofhimself, and that through Sancho's imprudence he might miss his ownobject, said to him, "As thou livest, my friend, let the matter restwhere it is, for the remedy seems to me a very rough one, and it will bewell to have patience; 'Zamora was not won in an hour.' If I have notreckoned wrong thou hast given thyself over a thousand lashes; that isenough for the present; 'for the ass,' to put it in homely phrase, 'bearsthe load, but not the overload.'"

"No, no, senor," replied Sancho; "it shall never be said of me, 'Themoney paid, the arms broken;' go back a little further, your worship, andlet me give myself at any rate a thousand lashes more; for in a couple ofbouts like this we shall have finished off the lot, and there will beeven cloth to spare."

"As thou art in such a willing mood," said Don Quixote, "may heaven aidthee; lay on and I'll retire."

Sancho returned to his task with so much resolution that he soon had thebark stripped off several trees, such was the severity with which hewhipped himself; and one time, raising his voice, and giving a beech atremendous lash, he cried out, "Here dies Samson, and all with him!"

At the sound of his piteous cry and of the stroke of the cruel lash, DonQuixote ran to him at once, and seizing the twisted halter that servedhim for a courbash, said to him, "Heaven forbid, Sancho my friend, thatto please me thou shouldst lose thy life, which is needed for the supportof thy wife and children; let Dulcinea wait for a better opportunity, andI will content myself with a hope soon to be realised, and have patienceuntil thou hast gained fresh strength so as to finish off this businessto the satisfaction of everybody."

"As your worship will have it so, senor," said Sancho, "so be it; butthrow your cloak over my shoulders, for I'm sweating and I don't want totake cold; it's a risk that novice disciplinants run."

Don Quixote obeyed, and stripping himself covered Sancho, who slept untilthe sun woke him; they then resumed their journey, which for the timebeing they brought to an end at a village that lay three leagues fartheron. They dismounted at a hostelry which Don Quixote recognised as suchand did not take to be a castle with moat, turrets, portcullis, anddrawbridge; for ever since he had been vanquished he talked morerationally about everything, as will be shown presently. They quarteredhim in a room on the ground floor, where in place of leather hangingsthere were pieces of painted serge such as they commonly use in villages.On one of them was painted by some very poor hand the Rape of Helen, whenthe bold guest carried her off from Menelaus, and on the other was thestory of Dido and AEneas, she on a high tower, as though she were makingsignals with a half sheet to her fugitive guest who was out at sea flyingin a frigate or brigantine. He noticed in the two stories that Helen didnot go very reluctantly, for she was laughing slyly and roguishly; butthe fair Dido was shown dropping tears the size of walnuts from her eyes.Don Quixote as he looked at them observed, "Those two ladies were veryunfortunate not to have been born in this age, and I unfortunate aboveall men not to have been born in theirs. Had I fallen in with thosegentlemen, Troy would not have been burned or Carthage destroyed, for itwould have been only for me to slay Paris, and all these misfortuneswould have been avoided."

"I'll lay a bet," said Sancho, "that before long there won't be a tavern,roadside inn, hostelry, or barber's shop where the story of our doingswon't be painted up; but I'd like it painted by the hand of a betterpainter than painted these."

"Thou art right, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "for this painter is likeOrbaneja, a painter there was at Ubeda, who when they asked him what hewas painting, used to say, 'Whatever it may turn out; and if he chancedto paint a cock he would write under it, 'This is a cock,' for fear theymight think it was a fox. The painter or writer, for it's all the same,who published the history of this new Don Quixote that has come out, musthave been one of this sort I think, Sancho, for he painted or wrote'whatever it might turn out;' or perhaps he is like a poet called Mauleonthat was about the Court some years ago, who used to answer at haphazardwhatever he was asked, and on one asking him what Deum de Deo meant, hereplied De donde diere. But, putting this aside, tell me, Sancho, hastthou a mind to have another turn at thyself to-night, and wouldst thourather have it indoors or in the open air?"

"Egad, senor," said Sancho, "for what I'm going to give myself, it comesall the same to me whether it is in a house or in the fields; still I'dlike it to be among trees; for I think they are company for me and helpme to bear my pain wonderfully."

"And yet it must not be, Sancho my friend," said Don Quixote; "but, toenable thee to recover strength, we must keep it for our own village; forat the latest we shall get there the day after tomorrow."

Sancho said he might do as he pleased; but that for his own part he wouldlike to finish off the business quickly before his blood cooled and whilehe had an appetite, because "in delay there is apt to be danger" veryoften, and "praying to God and plying the hammer," and "one take wasbetter than two I'll give thee's," and "a sparrow in the hand than avulture on the wing."

"I don't know what bad luck it is of mine," argument to my mind; however,I mean to mend said Sancho, "but I can't utter a word without a proverbthat is not as good as an argument to my mind; however, I mean to mend ifI can;" and so for the present the conversation ended.

CHAPTER LXXII.

OF HOW DON QUIXOTE AND SANCHO REACHED THEIR VILLAGE

All that day Don Quixote and Sancho remained in the village and innwaiting for night, the one to finish off his task of scourging in theopen country, the other to see it accomplished, for therein lay theaccomplishment of his wishes. Meanwhile there arrived at the hostelry atraveller on horseback with three or four servants, one of whom said tohim who appeared to be the master, "Here, Senor Don Alvaro Tarfe, yourworship may take your siesta to-day; the quarters seem clean and cool."

When he heard this Don Quixote said to Sancho, "Look here, Sancho; onturning over the leaves of that book of the Second Part of my history Ithink I came casually upon this name of Don Alvaro Tarfe."

"Very likely," said Sancho; "we had better let him dismount, andby-and-by we can ask about it."

The gentleman dismounted, and the landlady gave him a room on the groundfloor opposite Don Quixote's and adorned with painted serge hangings ofthe same sort. The newly arrived gentleman put on a summer coat, andcoming out to the gateway of the hostelry, which was wide and cool,addressing Don Quixote, who was pacing up and down there, he asked, "Inwhat direction your worship bound, gentle sir?"

"To a village near this which is my own village," replied Don Quixote;"and your worship, where are you bound for?"

"I am going to Granada, senor," said the gentleman, "to my own country."

"And a goodly country," said Don Quixote; "but will your worship do methe favour of telling me your name, for it strikes me it is of moreimportance to me to know it than I can tell you."

"My name is Don Alvaro Tarfe," replied the traveller.

To which Don Quixote returned, "I have no doubt whatever that yourworship is that Don Alvaro Tarfe who appears in print in the Second Partof the history of Don Quixote of La Mancha, lately printed and publishedby a new author."

"I am the same," replied the gentleman; "and that same Don Quixote, theprincipal personage in the said history, was a very great friend of mine,and it was I who took him away from home, or at least induced him to cometo some jousts that were to be held at Saragossa, whither I was goingmyself; indeed, I showed him many kindnesses, and saved him from havinghis shoulders touched up by the executioner because of his extremerashness."

"Tell me, Senor Don Alvaro," said Don Quixote, "am I at all like that DonQuixote you talk of?"

"No indeed," replied the traveller, "not a bit."

"And that Don Quixote-" said our one, "had he with him a squire calledSancho Panza?"

"He had," said Don Alvaro; "but though he had the name of being verydroll, I never heard him say anything that had any drollery in it."

"That I can well believe," said Sancho at this, "for to come out withdrolleries is not in everybody's line; and that Sancho your worshipspeaks of, gentle sir, must be some great scoundrel, dunderhead, andthief, all in one; for I am the real Sancho Panza, and I have moredrolleries than if it rained them; let your worship only try; come alongwith me for a year or so, and you will find they fall from me at everyturn, and so rich and so plentiful that though mostly I don't know what Iam saying I make everybody that hears me laugh. And the real Don Quixoteof La Mancha, the famous, the valiant, the wise, the lover, the righterof wrongs, the guardian of minors and orphans, the protector of widows,the killer of damsels, he who has for his sole mistress the peerlessDulcinea del Toboso, is this gentleman before you, my master; all otherDon Quixotes and all other Sancho Panzas are dreams and mockeries."

"By God I believe it," said Don Alvaro; "for you have uttered moredrolleries, my friend, in the few words you have spoken than the otherSancho Panza in all I ever heard from him, and they were not a few. Hewas more greedy than well-spoken, and more dull than droll; and I amconvinced that the enchanters who persecute Don Quixote the Good havebeen trying to persecute me with Don Quixote the Bad. But I don't knowwhat to say, for I am ready to swear I left him shut up in the Casa delNuncio at Toledo, and here another Don Quixote turns up, though a verydifferent one from mine."

"I don't know whether I am good," said Don Quixote, "but I can safely sayI am not 'the Bad;' and to prove it, let me tell you, Senor Don AlvaroTarfe, I have never in my life been in Saragossa; so far from that, whenit was told me that this imaginary Don Quixote had been present at thejousts in that city, I declined to enter it, in order to drag hisfalsehood before the face of the world; and so I went on straight toBarcelona, the treasure-house of courtesy, haven of strangers, asylum ofthe poor, home of the valiant, champion of the wronged, pleasant exchangeof firm friendships, and city unrivalled in site and beauty. And thoughthe adventures that befell me there are not by any means matters ofenjoyment, but rather of regret, I do not regret them, simply because Ihave seen it. In a word, Senor Don Alvaro Tarfe, I am Don Quixote of LaMancha, the one that fame speaks of, and not the unlucky one that hasattempted to usurp my name and deck himself out in my ideas. I entreatyour worship by your devoir as a gentleman to be so good as to make adeclaration before the alcalde of this village that you never in all yourlife saw me until now, and that neither am I the Don Quixote in print inthe Second Part, nor this Sancho Panza, my squire, the one your worshipknew."

"That I will do most willingly," replied Don Alvaro; "though it amazes meto find two Don Quixotes and two Sancho Panzas at once, as much alike inname as they differ in demeanour; and again I say and declare that what Isaw I cannot have seen, and that what happened me cannot have happened."

"No doubt your worship is enchanted, like my lady Dulcinea del Toboso,"said Sancho; "and would to heaven your disenchantment rested on my givingmyself another three thousand and odd lashes like what I'm giving myselffor her, for I'd lay them on without looking for anything."

"I don't understand that about the lashes," said Don Alvaro. Sanchoreplied that it was a long story to tell, but he would tell him if theyhappened to be going the same road.

By this dinner-time arrived, and Don Quixote and Don Alvaro dinedtogether. The alcalde of the village came by chance into the inn togetherwith a notary, and Don Quixote laid a petition before him, showing thatit was requisite for his rights that Don Alvaro Tarfe, the gentlemanthere present, should make a declaration before him that he did not knowDon Quixote of La Mancha, also there present, and that he was not the onethat was in print in a history entitled "Second Part of Don Quixote of LaMancha, by one Avellaneda of Tordesillas." The alcalde finally put it inlegal form, and the declaration was made with all the formalitiesrequired in such cases, at which Don Quixote and Sancho were in highdelight, as if a declaration of the sort was of any great importance tothem, and as if their words and deeds did not plainly show the differencebetween the two Don Quixotes and the two Sanchos. Many civilities andoffers of service were exchanged by Don Alvaro and Don Quixote, in thecourse of which the great Manchegan displayed such good taste that hedisabused Don Alvaro of the error he was under; and he, on his part, feltconvinced he must have been enchanted, now that he had been brought incontact with two such opposite Don Quixotes.

Evening came, they set out from the village, and after about half aleague two roads branched off, one leading to Don Quixote's village, theother the road Don Alvaro was to follow. In this short interval DonQuixote told him of his unfortunate defeat, and of Dulcinea's enchantmentand the remedy, all which threw Don Alvaro into fresh amazement, andembracing Don Quixote and Sancho he went his way, and Don Quixote wenthis. That night he passed among trees again in order to give Sancho anopportunity of working out his penance, which he did in the same fashionas the night before, at the expense of the bark of the beech trees muchmore than of his back, of which he took such good care that the lasheswould not have knocked off a fly had there been one there. The duped DonQuixote did not miss a single stroke of the count, and he found thattogether with those of the night before they made up three thousand andtwenty-nine. The sun apparently had got up early to witness thesacrifice, and with his light they resumed their journey, discussing thedeception practised on Don Alvaro, and saying how well done it was tohave taken his declaration before a magistrate in such an unimpeachableform. That day and night they travelled on, nor did anything worthmention happen them, unless it was that in the course of the night Sanchofinished off his task, whereat Don Quixote was beyond measure joyful. Hewatched for daylight, to see if along the road he should fall in with hisalready disenchanted lady Dulcinea; and as he pursued his journey therewas no woman he met that he did not go up to, to see if she was Dulcineadel Toboso, as he held it absolutely certain that Merlin's promises couldnot lie. Full of these thoughts and anxieties, they ascended a risingground wherefrom they descried their own village, at the sight of whichSancho fell on his knees exclaiming, "Open thine eyes, longed-for home,and see how thy son Sancho Panza comes back to thee, if not very rich,very well whipped! Open thine arms and receive, too, thy son Don Quixote,who, if he comes vanquished by the arm of another, comes victor overhimself, which, as he himself has told me, is the greatest victory anyonecan desire. I'm bringing back money, for if I was well whipped, I wentmounted like a gentleman."

"Have done with these fooleries," said Don Quixote; "let us push onstraight and get to our own place, where we will give free range to ourfancies, and settle our plans for our future pastoral life."

With this they descended the slope and directed their steps to theirvillage.

CHAPTER LXXIII.

OF THE OMENS DON QUIXOTE HAD AS HE ENTERED HIS OWN VILLAGE, AND OTHERINCIDENTS THAT EMBELLISH AND GIVE A COLOUR TO THIS GREAT HISTORY

At the entrance of the village, so says Cide Hamete, Don Quixote saw twoboys quarrelling on the village threshing-floor one of whom said to theother, "Take it easy, Periquillo; thou shalt never see it again as longas thou livest."

Don Quixote heard this, and said he to Sancho, "Dost thou not mark,friend, what that boy said, 'Thou shalt never see it again as long asthou livest'?"

"Well," said Sancho, "what does it matter if the boy said so?"

"What!" said Don Quixote, "dost thou not see that, applied to the objectof my desires, the words mean that I am never to see Dulcinea more?"

Sancho was about to answer, when his attention was diverted by seeing ahare come flying across the plain pursued by several greyhounds andsportsmen. In its terror it ran to take shelter and hide itself underDapple. Sancho caught it alive and presented it to Don Quixote, who wassaying, "Malum signum, malum signum! a hare flies, greyhounds chase it,Dulcinea appears not."

"Your worship's a strange man," said Sancho; "let's take it for grantedthat this hare is Dulcinea, and these greyhounds chasing it the malignantenchanters who turned her into a country wench; she flies, and I catchher and put her into your worship's hands, and you hold her in your armsand cherish her; what bad sign is that, or what ill omen is there to befound here?"

The two boys who had been quarrelling came over to look at the hare, andSancho asked one of them what their quarrel was about. He was answered bythe one who had said, "Thou shalt never see it again as long as thoulivest," that he had taken a cage full of crickets from the other boy,and did not mean to give it back to him as long as he lived. Sancho tookout four cuartos from his pocket and gave them to the boy for the cage,which he placed in Don Quixote's hands, saying, "There, senor! there arethe omens broken and destroyed, and they have no more to do with ouraffairs, to my thinking, fool as I am, than with last year's clouds; andif I remember rightly I have heard the curate of our village say that itdoes not become Christians or sensible people to give any heed to thesesilly things; and even you yourself said the same to me some time ago,telling me that all Christians who minded omens were fools; but there'sno need of making words about it; let us push on and go into ourvillage."

The sportsmen came up and asked for their hare, which Don Quixote gavethem. They then went on, and upon the green at the entrance of the townthey came upon the curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco busy withtheir breviaries. It should be mentioned that Sancho had thrown, by wayof a sumpter-cloth, over Dapple and over the bundle of armour, thebuckram robe painted with flames which they had put upon him at theduke's castle the night Altisidora came back to life. He had also fixedthe mitre on Dapple's head, the oddest transformation and decoration thatever ass in the world underwent. They were at once recognised by both thecurate and the bachelor, who came towards them with open arms. DonQuixote dismounted and received them with a close embrace; and the boys,who are lynxes that nothing escapes, spied out the ass's mitre and camerunning to see it, calling out to one another, "Come here, boys, and seeSancho Panza's ass figged out finer than Mingo, and Don Quixote's beastleaner than ever."

So at length, with the boys capering round them, and accompanied by thecurate and the bachelor, they made their entrance into the town, andproceeded to Don Quixote's house, at the door of which they found hishousekeeper and niece, whom the news of his arrival had already reached.It had been brought to Teresa Panza, Sancho's wife, as well, and she withher hair all loose and half naked, dragging Sanchica her daughter by thehand, ran out to meet her husband; but seeing him coming in by no meansas good case as she thought a governor ought to be, she said to him, "Howis it you come this way, husband? It seems to me you come tramping andfootsore, and looking more like a disorderly vagabond than a governor."

"Hold your tongue, Teresa," said Sancho; "often 'where there are pegsthere are no flitches;' let's go into the house and there you'll hearstrange things. I bring money, and that's the main thing, got by my ownindustry without wronging anybody."

"You bring the money, my good husband," said Teresa, "and no matterwhether it was got this way or that; for, however you may have got it,you'll not have brought any new practice into the world."

Sanchica embraced her father and asked him if he brought her anything,for she had been looking out for him as for the showers of May; and shetaking hold of him by the girdle on one side, and his wife by the hand,while the daughter led Dapple, they made for their house, leaving DonQuixote in his, in the hands of his niece and housekeeper, and in thecompany of the curate and the bachelor.

Don Quixote at once, without any regard to time or season, withdrew inprivate with the bachelor and the curate, and in a few words told them ofhis defeat, and of the engagement he was under not to quit his villagefor a year, which he meant to keep to the letter without departing ahair's breadth from it, as became a knight-errant bound by scrupulousgood faith and the laws of knight-errantry; and of how he thought ofturning shepherd for that year, and taking his diversion in the solitudeof the fields, where he could with perfect freedom give range to histhoughts of love while he followed the virtuous pastoral calling; and hebesought them, if they had not a great deal to do and were not preventedby more important business, to consent to be his companions, for he wouldbuy sheep enough to qualify them for shepherds; and the most importantpoint of the whole affair, he could tell them, was settled, for he hadgiven them names that would fit them to a T. The curate asked what theywere. Don Quixote replied that he himself was to be called the shepherdQuixotize and the bachelor the shepherd Carrascon, and the curate theshepherd Curambro, and Sancho Panza the shepherd Pancino.

Both were astounded at Don Quixote's new craze; however, lest he shouldonce more make off out of the village from them in pursuit of hischivalry, they trusting that in the course of the year he might be cured,fell in with his new project, applauded his crazy idea as a bright one,and offered to share the life with him. "And what's more," said SamsonCarrasco, "I am, as all the world knows, a very famous poet, and I'll bealways making verses, pastoral, or courtly, or as it may come into myhead, to pass away our time in those secluded regions where we shall beroaming. But what is most needful, sirs, is that each of us should choosethe name of the shepherdess he means to glorify in his verses, and thatwe should not leave a tree, be it ever so hard, without writing up andcarving her name on it, as is the habit and custom of love-smittenshepherds."

"That's the very thing," said Don Quixote; "though I am relieved fromlooking for the name of an imaginary shepherdess, for there's thepeerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of these brooksides, the ornamentof these meadows, the mainstay of beauty, the cream of all the graces,and, in a word, the being to whom all praise is appropriate, be it everso hyperbolical."

"Very true," said the curate; "but we the others must look about foraccommodating shepherdesses that will answer our purpose one way oranother."

"And," added Samson Carrasco, "if they fail us, we can call them by thenames of the ones in print that the world is filled with, Filidas,Amarilises, Dianas, Fleridas, Galateas, Belisardas; for as they sell themin the market-places we may fairly buy them and make them our own. If mylady, or I should say my shepherdess, happens to be called Ana, I'll singher praises under the name of Anarda, and if Francisca, I'll call herFrancenia, and if Lucia, Lucinda, for it all comes to the same thing; andSancho Panza, if he joins this fraternity, may glorify his wife TeresaPanza as Teresaina."

Don Quixote laughed at the adaptation of the name, and the curatebestowed vast praise upon the worthy and honourable resolution he hadmade, and again offered to bear him company all the time that he couldspare from his imperative duties. And so they took their leave of him,recommending and beseeching him to take care of his health and treathimself to a suitable diet.

It so happened his niece and the housekeeper overheard all the three ofthem said; and as soon as they were gone they both of them came in to DonQuixote, and said the niece, "What's this, uncle? Now that we werethinking you had come back to stay at home and lead a quiet respectablelife there, are you going to get into fresh entanglements, and turn'young shepherd, thou that comest here, young shepherd going there?' Nay!indeed 'the straw is too hard now to make pipes of.'"

"And," added the housekeeper, "will your worship be able to bear, out inthe fields, the heats of summer, and the chills of winter, and thehowling of the wolves? Not you; for that's a life and a business forhardy men, bred and seasoned to such work almost from the time they werein swaddling-clothes. Why, to make choice of evils, it's better to be aknight-errant than a shepherd! Look here, senor; take my advice--and I'mnot giving it to you full of bread and wine, but fasting, and with fiftyyears upon my head--stay at home, look after your affairs, go often toconfession, be good to the poor, and upon my soul be it if any evil comesto you."

"Hold your peace, my daughters," said Don Quixote; "I know very well whatmy duty is; help me to bed, for I don't feel very well; and rest assuredthat, knight-errant now or wandering shepherd to be, I shall never failto have a care for your interests, as you will see in the end." And thegood wenches (for that they undoubtedly were), the housekeeper and niece,helped him to bed, where they gave him something to eat and made him ascomfortable as possible.

CHAPTER LXXIV.

OF HOW DON QUIXOTE FELL SICK, AND OF THE WILL HE MADE, AND HOW HE DIED

As nothing that is man's can last for ever, but all tends ever downwardsfrom its beginning to its end, and above all man's life, and as DonQuixote's enjoyed no special dispensation from heaven to stay its course,its end and close came when he least looked for it. For-whether it was ofthe dejection the thought of his defeat produced, or of heaven's willthat so ordered it--a fever settled upon him and kept him in his bed forsix days, during which he was often visited by his friends the curate,the bachelor, and the barber, while his good squire Sancho Panza neverquitted his bedside. They, persuaded that it was grief at finding himselfvanquished, and the object of his heart, the liberation anddisenchantment of Dulcinea, unattained, that kept him in this state,strove by all the means in their power to cheer him up; the bachelorbidding him take heart and get up to begin his pastoral life, for whichhe himself, he said, had already composed an eclogue that would take theshine out of all Sannazaro had ever written, and had bought with his ownmoney two famous dogs to guard the flock, one called Barcino and theother Butron, which a herdsman of Quintanar had sold him.

But for all this Don Quixote could not shake off his sadness. His friendscalled in the doctor, who felt his pulse and was not very well satisfiedwith it, and said that in any case it would be well for him to attend tothe health of his soul, as that of his body was in a bad way. Don Quixoteheard this calmly; but not so his housekeeper, his niece, and his squire,who fell weeping bitterly, as if they had him lying dead before them. Thedoctor's opinion was that melancholy and depression were bringing him tohis end. Don Quixote begged them to leave him to himself, as he had awish to sleep a little. They obeyed, and he slept at one stretch, as thesaying is, more than six hours, so that the housekeeper and niece thoughthe was going to sleep for ever. But at the end of that time he woke up,and in a loud voice exclaimed, "Blessed be Almighty God, who has shown mesuch goodness. In truth his mercies are boundless, and the sins of mencan neither limit them nor keep them back!"

The niece listened with attention to her uncle's words, and they struckher as more coherent than what usually fell from him, at least during hisillness, so she asked, "What are you saying, senor? Has anything strangeoccurred? What mercies or what sins of men are you talking of?"

"The mercies, niece," said Don Quixote, "are those that God has thismoment shown me, and with him, as I said, my sins are no impediment tothem. My reason is now free and clear, rid of the dark shadows ofignorance that my unhappy constant study of those detestable books ofchivalry cast over it. Now I see through their absurdities anddeceptions, and it only grieves me that this destruction of my illusionshas come so late that it leaves me no time to make some amends by readingother books that might be a light to my soul. Niece, I feel myself at thepoint of death, and I would fain meet it in such a way as to show that mylife has not been so ill that I should leave behind me the name of amadman; for though I have been one, I would not that the fact should bemade plainer at my death. Call in to me, my dear, my good friends thecurate, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and Master Nicholas the barber, forI wish to confess and make my will." But his niece was saved the troubleby the entrance of the three. The instant Don Quixote saw them heexclaimed, "Good news for you, good sirs, that I am no longer Don Quixoteof La Mancha, but Alonso Quixano, whose way of life won for him the nameof Good. Now am I the enemy of Amadis of Gaul and of the whole countlesstroop of his descendants; odious to me now are all the profane stories ofknight-errantry; now I perceive my folly, and the peril into whichreading them brought me; now, by God's mercy schooled into my rightsenses, I loathe them."

When the three heard him speak in this way, they had no doubt whateverthat some new craze had taken possession of him; and said Samson, "What?Senor Don Quixote! Now that we have intelligence of the lady Dulcineabeing disenchanted, are you taking this line; now, just as we are on thepoint of becoming shepherds, to pass our lives singing, like princes, areyou thinking of turning hermit? Hush, for heaven's sake, be rational andlet's have no more nonsense."

"All that nonsense," said Don Quixote, "that until now has been a realityto my hurt, my death will, with heaven's help, turn to my good. I feel,sirs, that I am rapidly drawing near death; a truce to jesting; let mehave a confessor to confess me, and a notary to make my will; for inextremities like this, man must not trifle with his soul; and while thecurate is confessing me let some one, I beg, go for the notary."

They looked at one another, wondering at Don Quixote's words; but, thoughuncertain, they were inclined to believe him, and one of the signs bywhich they came to the conclusion he was dying was this so sudden andcomplete return to his senses after having been mad; for to the wordsalready quoted he added much more, so well expressed, so devout, and sorational, as to banish all doubt and convince them that he was sound ofmind. The curate turned them all out, and left alone with him confessedhim. The bachelor went for the notary and returned shortly afterwardswith him and with Sancho, who, having already learned from the bachelorthe condition his master was in, and finding the housekeeper and nieceweeping, began to blubber and shed tears.

The confession over, the curate came out saying, "Alonso Quixano the Goodis indeed dying, and is indeed in his right mind; we may now go in to himwhile he makes his will."

This news gave a tremendous impulse to the brimming eyes of thehousekeeper, niece, and Sancho Panza his good squire, making the tearsburst from their eyes and a host of sighs from their hearts; for of atruth, as has been said more than once, whether as plain Alonso Quixanothe Good, or as Don Quixote of La Mancha, Don Quixote was always of agentle disposition and kindly in all his ways, and hence he was beloved,not only by those of his own house, but by all who knew him.

The notary came in with the rest, and as soon as the preamble of the hadbeen set out and Don Quixote had commended his soul to God with all thedevout formalities that are usual, coming to the bequests, he said,"Item, it is my will that, touching certain moneys in the hands of SanchoPanza (whom in my madness I made my squire), inasmuch as between him andme there have been certain accounts and debits and credits, no claim bemade against him, nor any account demanded of him in respect of them; butthat if anything remain over and above, after he has paid himself what Iowe him, the balance, which will be but little, shall be his, and muchgood may it do him; and if, as when I was mad I had a share in giving himthe government of an island, so, now that I am in my senses, I could givehim that of a kingdom, it should be his, for the simplicity of hischaracter and the fidelity of his conduct deserve it." And then, turningto Sancho, he said, "Forgive me, my friend, that I led thee to seem asmad as myself, making thee fall into the same error I myself fell into,that there were and still are knights-errant in the world."

"Ah!" said Sancho weeping, "don't die, master, but take my advice andlive many years; for the foolishest thing a man can do in this life is tolet himself die without rhyme or reason, without anybody killing him, orany hands but melancholy's making an end of him. Come, don't be lazy, butget up from your bed and let us take to the fields in shepherd's trim aswe agreed. Perhaps behind some bush we shall find the lady Dulcineadisenchanted, as fine as fine can be. If it be that you are dying ofvexation at having been vanquished, lay the blame on me, and say you wereoverthrown because I had girthed Rocinante badly; besides you must haveseen in your books of chivalry that it is a common thing for knights toupset one another, and for him who is conquered to-day to be conquerortomorrow."

"Sirs, not so fast," said Don Quixote, "'in last year's nests there areno birds this year.' I was mad, now I am in my senses; I was Don Quixoteof La Mancha, I am now, as I said, Alonso Quixano the Good; and may myrepentance and sincerity restore me to the esteem you used to have forme; and now let Master Notary proceed.

"Item, I leave all my property absolutely to Antonia Quixana my niece,here present, after all has been deducted from the most available portionof it that may be required to satisfy the bequests I have made. And thefirst disbursement I desire to be made is the payment of the wages I owefor the time my housekeeper has served me, with twenty ducats, over andabove, for a gown. The curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco, nowpresent, I appoint my executors.

"Item, it is my wish that if Antonia Quixana, my niece, desires to marry,she shall marry a man of whom it shall be first of all ascertained byinformation taken that he does not know what books of chivalry are; andif it should be proved that he does, and if, in spite of this, my nieceinsists upon marrying him, and does marry him, then that she shallforfeit the whole of what I have left her, which my executors shalldevote to works of charity as they please.

"Item, I entreat the aforesaid gentlemen my executors, that, if any happychance should lead them to discover the author who is said to havewritten a history now going about under the title of 'Second Part of theAchievements of Don Quixote of La Mancha,' they beg of him on my behalfas earnestly as they can to forgive me for having been, without intendingit, the cause of his writing so many and such monstrous absurdities as hehas written in it; for I am leaving the world with a feeling ofcompunction at having provoked him to write them."

With this he closed his will, and a faintness coming over him hestretched himself out at full length on the bed. All were in a flutterand made haste to relieve him, and during the three days he lived afterthat on which he made his will he fainted away very often. The house wasall in confusion; but still the niece ate and the housekeeper drank andSancho Panza enjoyed himself; for inheriting property wipes out orsoftens down in the heir the feeling of grief the dead man might beexpected to leave behind him.

At last Don Quixote's end came, after he had received all the sacraments,and had in full and forcible terms expressed his detestation of books ofchivalry. The notary was there at the time, and he said that in no bookof chivalry had he ever read of any knight-errant dying in his bed socalmly and so like a Christian as Don Quixote, who amid the tears andlamentations of all present yielded up his spirit, that is to say died.On perceiving it the curate begged the notary to bear witness that AlonsoQuixano the Good, commonly called Don Quixote of La Mancha, had passedaway from this present life, and died naturally; and said he desired thistestimony in order to remove the possibility of any other author saveCide Hamete Benengeli bringing him to life again falsely and makinginterminable stories out of his achievements.

Such was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, whose villageCide Hamete would not indicate precisely, in order to leave all the townsand villages of La Mancha to contend among themselves for the right toadopt him and claim him as a son, as the seven cities of Greece contendedfor Homer. The lamentations of Sancho and the niece and housekeeper areomitted here, as well as the new epitaphs upon his tomb; Samson Carrasco,however, put the following lines:

A doughty gentleman lies here;A stranger all his life to fear;Nor in his death could Death prevail,In that last hour, to make him quail.He for the world but little cared;And at his feats the world was scared;A crazy man his life he passed,But in his senses died at last.

And said most sage Cide Hamete to his pen, "Rest here, hung up by thisbrass wire, upon this shelf, O my pen, whether of skilful make or clumsycut I know not; here shalt thou remain long ages hence, unlesspresumptuous or malignant story-tellers take thee down to profane thee.But ere they touch thee warn them, and, as best thou canst, say to them:

For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I for him; it was his to act, mineto write; we two together make but one, notwithstanding and in spite ofthat pretended Tordesillesque writer who has ventured or would venturewith his great, coarse, ill-trimmed ostrich quill to write theachievements of my valiant knight;--no burden for his shoulders, norsubject for his frozen wit: whom, if perchance thou shouldst come to knowhim, thou shalt warn to leave at rest where they lie the weary moulderingbones of Don Quixote, and not to attempt to carry him off, in oppositionto all the privileges of death, to Old Castile, making him rise from thegrave where in reality and truth he lies stretched at full length,powerless to make any third expedition or new sally; for the two that hehas already made, so much to the enjoyment and approval of everybody towhom they have become known, in this as well as in foreign countries, arequite sufficient for the purpose of turning into ridicule the whole ofthose made by the whole set of the knights-errant; and so doing shaltthou discharge thy Christian calling, giving good counsel to one thatbears ill-will to thee. And I shall remain satisfied, and proud to havebeen the first who has ever enjoyed the fruit of his writings as fully ashe could desire; for my desire has been no other than to deliver over tothe detestation of mankind the false and foolish tales of the books ofchivalry, which, thanks to that of my true Don Quixote, are even nowtottering, and doubtless doomed to fall for ever. Farewell."